Diaries of the Dead
by flying feather scribbles
Summary: To understand what is going on, you should probably read Explosive Energy first. Emmaline is a troubled mutant who left home at the age of 6. This is her diary. Her one comfort is her diary and a mysterious man named Brian. Throughout her entries are her fears for her beloved family, poetry, and the many stories people of the world have told her. This is my 2nd Fanfic. :)


**Hello everyone! (Or no one.) I have decided to start a fic about Emmaline's diary. Please tell me all my mistakes, misspellings, and general mess-ups; I love constructive criticism! **

**DISCLAIMER: Well... honestly, I own a lot of this... I own Emmaline, the idea, the poems/songs, the 'story'... I DO NOT OWN X-MEN EVOLUTION! Although that doesn't come into play until later- oh, I don't want to give away my plot (Note to self: what plot?). :)**

**Please read, review, mebbe even follow or... favorite!**

_Alright: this is where we are in Emma's life: she is now 8. (I decided to skip to where her entries actually got interesting, as years 6-7 were kind of confusing, plus I think she probably wasn't a great speller or writer in general...). Lately, she has been very worried about her family... _

_May 2, 2009_

Today I walked some more. My feet ache especially tonight—I think my shoes are too small again. I don't know what to do; last time I found a pair in a dump, but now I'm in a city again. Perhaps I should go to the library (once I find where that is) and look up a map of wherever I am.

Last night I dreamed of a boy with blond hair, who was slightly older than me, about ten or so. Actually, I know he is ten. He was angry at his father, who kept hitting him over and over again, then I was him, and my entire back was on fire, the flames licking up and down my back.

All of the sudden, I was a little girl. This one wasn't a memory either; it was happening at that very moment. Her name was Lillian, and her house must have been on fire, although she did not know it. I—Lillian—was in my—her—room, watching as hot tongues of flames devoured my—her—toys, books, and then... her family. Once the bedroom wall had fallen down, I—she—could see into her parents room where they lay, charred. This was the last thing we saw before her vision went fuzzy and immense pain tore through her body.

Next I went to Beatrice Lagoon's funeral. I was Mary Lagoon, her granddaughter. Apparently I had not known Beatrice very well, and was taken to staring at a wall with a picture of Beatrice's late dog Larry, bored out of my mind. This seemed to go on for a few hours, which seemed like and eternity to me, before I went to the refreshments. Everything there seemed to be frilled up, and fancy—most of it french. The only item I recognized was a lobster—

Boom. I was a fisherman trying to haul out an immensely HUGE lobster from a fine net.

I suppose I could go on like this for awhile. However, I think I'm going to have to sleep.

_May 28, 2009_

Someone has been tracking me. I can feel it in my bones, and fear is surging through my veins.

I think there is some war going on in some faraway country. I don't understand exactly what it is about, but I get how horrible it is. So many dead men, murdered women, starving children. I'm not going to even start about the animals... stringing brains of—never mind, I am not going to barf. Not going to barf. In, out. In, out.

I have to go—they are too close. I can feel it.

_June 11, 2009_

I know why they are tracking me. At least, I hope I truly do.

_From me, away my strength ebbs._

_I am tangled within the lies webs._

_From me, my courage goes._

_The winds sing of the world's woes._

_From me, the truth hides._

_On the wave of sorrows I ride._

_From me, my memories fade._

_I wonder, for what purpose I have been made._

_From me, my family is left behind._

_Truth is what I seek to find._

_From me, my life is taken._

_I wonder when everyone else will awaken._

_For me, I have you._

_In this entire world, that is all I know true._

_June 21, 2009_

They are gone.

Forever.

Dead.

How?

I.

Killed.

Them.

Not on purpose. They came too close... then I screamed, and they fell to the floor. Their hearts had stopped, and their brains were dark. Who they they were, it doesn't matter.

Because they are never coming back.

I killed them.

Please don't let it be true... help.

Tonight... I'm supposed to be happy... it's my birthday... now I'm 10...

But why should I be happy when so many others are miserable?

I know the answer.

I shouldn't be.

I feel the shame. So I am not happy.

_It's gonna take a hundred years_

_to cry all these tears._

_I bear your burden,_

_sing your song,_

_been following all along._

_It's gonna take a thousand years _

_to cry all these tears._

_I look in the world's mirror._

_And do not like the sight that greets me;_

_does life hate me?_

_It's gonna take a million years_

_to cry all these tears._

_You can't mend hearts with tape_

_Only send your sorrows through_

_letters of tears._

_It's gonna take a trillion years_

_to cry all these tears._

_The greatest of my fears is war._

_Fir hearts are torn, and minds are worn._

_Sometimes I feel as though I have yet to be born!_

_It's gonna take a zillion years_

_to cry all these tears._

_I page the album, staring at the past_

_wishing moments of glory could last_

_not speed by so dearly fast._

_It's gonna take an eternity of years_

_to cry all these tears._

_I feel the world's pain,_

_for all is lain out plain_

_for me to see, _

_the veil is torn._

_It's gonna take way to many years_

_to cry all these tears._

_Cherish the moments of joy!_

_Bask in the smiles, they will last for_

_a thousand miles._

_Ignore the dim ploys..._

_Sing the glory song with me._

_For all to hear and to see!_

_My eyes are dry_

_I heave not one sigh,_

_as the years pass by._

_Why?_

_I am so sad,_

_ad think only of moments glad. _

_I didn't waste all my years_

_with all those tears._

Words to live by. As I sit here and cry.

**End of part 1 of 2009! Please review! Tell me what you think! :D**

**-flying feather scribbles**

**PS I actually do own the poetry, so please don't use it... please... I worked hard (sort of; like 15 minutes) on each poem, so... respect my property... please? Thank you (in advance)!**


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